Rage (25 page)

He then reminded the court of Kevin’s history of violence. He pointed out that both Swayze and Levine had testified to his psychopathic personality and that, despite what Kevin himself said, he had shown no genuine guilt or remorse for any of his crimes. Goody then warned that Kevin has a high likelihood to re-offend.

When given his chance to rebut, Nuttall urged McCombs to keep Kevin in custody at least until he turned 21 and then put him in an intense rehabilitative program so that he could get on with his young life. He noted that Kevin would be unlikely to receive any significant rehabilitative treatment in an adult prison, but he could in a youth custody center. In an adult prison, Kevin would be exposed to hardened criminals as his only peer group. He wouldn’t get any better there, he’d get worse. Kevin’s mental illness, Nuttall said, was the root of the problem: “He is not a bad person. He is a sick person.”

Two weeks later, McCombs was ready to pass sentence. It was September 29, 2006. Joanne was there with her sister, Wendy Eberhardt. Ralston didn’t show. Kevin Madden Sr. did. Tim Ferriman Sr. was also there.

When summing up what he called a “horrific” crime, McCombs spoke of where the boys stood on that day, almost three years after Johnathon died. He first talked about Tim. “I found his apology to be sincere and his remorse to be genuine.” McCombs added that Tim was “very fortunate” to be convicted of manslaughter, indicating that he considered a murder conviction to have been just as likely.

And he also admitted that Tim had made “major strides” at Syl Apps, indicating that, if he played his cards right, he could rejoin society, this time in a better way. But he warned Tim that he wasn’t completely sold on him. He added: “There is credible psychiatric evidence before me that if untreated, Mr. Ferriman poses at least a moderate threat” to the public.

Then he turned his attention to Kevin. He called him an “un-remorseful, diagnosed psychopath,” one who “continues to blame his mother” for all his problems. McCombs said that Kevin “has repeatedly stated that he does not love anyone, nor ever felt love from anyone. He has stated he doesn’t know what emotions feel like.” McCombs added that there is “credible evidence that he suffers from a deeply entrenched psychological disorder and psychopathy—and that he remains a danger to the public.”

After waiting for that to sink in, McCombs announced: “This is not to say that I regard Kevin Madden as unsalvageable.”

But that salvage operation would have to wait. McCombs sentenced Kevin Madden to life imprisonment with no chance at parole for 10 years for the murder of Johnathon Madden. He also sentenced him to 10 years—to be served concurrently—for the attempted murder of Ralston Champagnie. Kevin would serve the next two years at a youth facility before being transferred to an adult medium- or maximum-security prison, depending on his behavior.

Timothy Ferriman received two years less a day plus three years probation for the manslaughter conviction related to the death of Johnathon Madden.

He had sentenced them as adults. Brean, Small, Blatchford and the rest of the media realized they could identify Kevin, Tim and Johnathon in their morning editions. Ashley and Pierre, though, would remain protected.

Joanne could make her website.

Kevin was going away for a very, very long time. Tim wouldn’t be coming home for a while.

For the first time since Wark interviewed him the day after he killed his brother, Kevin Madden was seen to be crying.

Outside the courthouse, Brean caught up with Tim Ferriman Sr., who was clearly upset at the outcome of the sentencing. “I expected I’d be taking him home today,” he said.

He also confided in the young reporter that since his son’s name was going to be public information, he wasn’t looking forward to all the explaining he was going to have to do. People had already been talking to him about the case—not realizing “Vampire Boy” was his son—and there were all kinds of untrue rumors circulating about the boys. But at least now he could try to set the record straight.

One of the things he wanted to make clear was that Tim never would have been involved with anything like this if it wasn’t for Ashley. “He was influenced by a coquette,” he said. “And it’s not the first time he’s been influenced by a girl. He was naive. I’ve done it many times myself, fallen for a pretty face.”

And Tim’s father lashed out at Ashley for her role in the events. “She’s very smart for what she did. She was very wise to do it. But I wonder how much participation Tim would have had if she hadn’t kept saying, ‘Good job, good job.’ ”

With a little more than a year left in Syl Apps on his sentence, Tim Ferriman’s long-awaited appeal finally came before a tribunal in October 2007. But by that time, “Vampire Boy” was clearly less of a draw than he had been in the past.

A few minutes before the appeal was to be heard, there was nobody with me in the Osgoode Hall courtroom except a few lawyers—including Dennis Lenzin—before the judges arrived. They were all milling around the courtroom, chatting about various things. I heard one of them say to another: “He’s just a total fucking loser.” I can’t be sure he was talking about Tim, but I wouldn’t be all that surprised. The young man whose future was in question didn’t show.

Soon we were joined by Peter Small, veteran court reporter for
The Toronto Star
. Peter’s a great guy with awesome connections and we started talking about the case and all the people we both knew in local media, police and the justice system.

Just before the proceedings were about to begin, Joanne Champagnie walked in with two associates. One had an ID card hanging from her belt and appeared to be an officer of the court. The other was a family member who had been part of the process from the start. All of the lawyers acknowledged Joanne’s entrance with a nod, wave or at least deferential silence. She walked in slowly and deliberately, as though she was having a great deal of trouble getting to her seat. She leaned on her companions for support and occasionally reached for the wall to steady herself. No one spoke until she was seated.

A few minutes after the proceedings actually began, the door opened again and Ashley walked in with one of her friends. She was wearing a tasteful dress and little makeup. She’s still pretty, but she has more of a hard, cynical look about her than she used to. She looks a touch older than her 18 years, but no older than a typical college undergrad. Her entry and heavy steps brought the proceedings to a halt. Once she sat—beside Joanne but without acknowledging her—with a loud, seemingly exasperated sigh, the appeal began in earnest.

Tim’s lawyer, David Harris, presented a multi-pronged case. He said that Tim had turned his life around at Syl Apps. He’d applied himself and earned a high school diploma—something he was not headed for before the murder.

He also pointed out that Tim had received a harsher sentence than many other people his age who had been convicted of manslaughter.

The judges acknowledged his points with little argument, although one of them pointed out that his academic success at Syl Apps might be an indication that the facility was actually the best place for him—at least for now.

Then Harris stepped into a minefield. He told the judges that he thought Justice David McCombs had erred in his judgment because he had not given equal weight to both expert psychiatric witnesses. He pointed out that Dominique Bourget, the psychiatrist who examined the boys at Royal Ottawa Hospital, and Ian Swayze, the doctor who examined them at Toronto’s Center for Addiction and Mental Health after their convictions, had very divergent opinions as to what motivated the killing, and that McCombs had ignored Bourget and accepted Swayze’s opinion as gospel.

My experience in courts has shown me that judges really, really don’t like it when a lawyer attacks the opinion of one of their own. And nothing that happened that day changed my perspective. The three judges of the tribunal took Harris to task. Taking turns, they lectured him on the rights of a judge and pointed out repeatedly that McCombs had the power to determine the weight he would give the testimony of any witness. If he felt that Swayze had hit the bull’s-eye while Bourget had missed the board entirely, it was entirely within his rights to do so. Their arguments on this point took so long and were so thorough, it seemed like they were scolding Harris by the time they finished.

Since Harris had nothing more to say, the judges decided to confer in their chambers. They left for a few minutes and the courtroom once again became animated with conversations between the lawyers and Peter and me. Ashley and her companion stamped out of the courtroom, as if disappointed that Tim wasn’t there.

The judges returned after about ten minutes. They took a few moments to thank Harris for his presentation and to point out his long record of thoughtful and professional arguments before the court. Then they told the Crown—a meticulous-looking young man—that they would not need to hear from him today. The defense simply had no case and, if anything, the young man seemed to have been benefiting from his time in custody. Tim Ferriman would be required to serve the rest of his sentence as charged.

After the hearing, Peter and I did our best to grab some of the principals for comments. I bet wrong. While he spoke with Harris, I hopped on an elevator with one of the attorneys from the original two trials and told him who I was and that I was writing a book about the case. He sighed and told me: “I don’t speak to the media.” Then he paused and added: “Dr. Phil called and I turned him down . . . so what makes you think I’ll talk to you?” I didn’t have time to see if I could get anything else from him, so I cut my losses and stuck my arm between the closing elevator doors. They popped open and I jumped out to join Peter, who was approaching Joanne. “Just make sure you spell my name right,” the lawyer called out as the doors were closing again. “Don’t worry,” I called back. “It’s an easy one.”

I ran to join Peter just as he was about to talk to Joanne. Her handlers told us both that she wasn’t ready to talk. That was cool. We had to respect that. But I had to finally meet her. By that point we had traded e-mails and spoken on the phone, but had actually never met face to face. I introduced myself—told her she could finally put a face to the many e-mails and phone calls she had gotten from me—and shook her hand.

When our eyes met, I saw something I really wished I hadn’t. I saw the sorrow and pain of a parent who had lost both of her sons. I saw the honest truth of tragedy and I could not look away. She tried to smile and said something neither of us remembers.

Then her companions took her to a car and whisked her away. Peter and I walked up the street talking about the case for a few minutes, but soon parted—he had another trial to cover and I had another source to interview.

While attending Tim’s appeal may have thrown her for a loop, by all reports Joanne is doing quite well, given the circumstances. While many of the people I spoke with held Ralston’s intractability at least partly responsible for the tragedy that befell the family, she certainly doesn’t. They are still married and together.

They no longer live at 90 Dawes, but aren’t very far away. The memories aren’t far away, either. Detective Sergeant Terry Wark did his best to measure her progress through the Toronto Police Department’s victim’s services unit. Some time after he was satisfied she was beginning to put it all behind her, he received a call from her. She was complaining that on the walks she and Ralston took around the neighborhood, they occasionally ran into Pierre. It was, she said, very disturbing to see a young man who she believed had helped murder her son and tried to murder her husband. Wark had to sadly tell her there was nothing he could do about it. Pierre had been acquitted. He was a free man. He could walk down the street like anybody else.

Joanne has launched her promised memorial website for Johnathon. It can be seen at
http://www.johnathon-madden.memory-of.com
. On opening, it plays an mp3 of Bette Midler singing “Wind Beneath My Wings.” The front page features a rather serious-looking portrait of Johnathon (his sixth-grade school photo) and a personal tribute written by Joanne. It is followed by an anonymously written poem expressing the hope that the family will be reunited in the afterlife.

The site’s second page contains many touching condolences offered by friends, family members and strangers.

What follows is a copy of the eulogy written and delivered by Johnathon’s uncle Frank at the funeral. It takes the form of a letter from heaven in which Johnathon assures his family and friends that he is much happier now and that he doesn’t want to be remembered for the last few tragic moments of his life, but for the rest of it.

Then there is a photo album that tracks Johnathon’s life from infancy to the year of his death. He looks a lot like his mom. Many of the photos are school pictures, but a bunch of them show Johnathon playing, posing or—when he was a toddler—just going about his business. There are 51 photos in the collection and Kevin shows up in none of them. Neither does Ralston or Kevin Madden Sr.

Joanne visits Kevin in prison every once in a while. From all reports, he has not made any significant progress in the psychological treatment he’s received in custody and it’s unlikely he’ll be paroled when he becomes eligible in 2016, when he’ll be 29. Nobody I spoke with was of the opinion Kevin would ever be able to shake his anger and violence problems well enough to convince a parole board that he would not re-offend if released. One police officer I spoke with who was familiar with the case and with Kevin told me point blank: “He’s not getting out.” It has yet to be decided if he will be transferred to a medium or maximum security prison.

Pierre has, as many predicted, shunned the spotlight. He went back to Rosedale Heights and got his diploma a year later than the rest of his class. He still draws a lot and, from what I hear, would like to become a comic-book or animation artist. He continues to get strong support from his parents, who Wark described as “good people” and having “gone through hell for him.”

Tim is still in Syl Apps, but should be out before the end of 2008. By all accounts, he seems to be doing well there, responding to his treatments. According to a recently released former inmate I spoke with who knew him, he became much less unpopular among the general population there once he stopped talking in “funny” voices and trying to show off how smart he was all the time. Syl Apps isn’t considered a very difficult place for a young man to do time, and Ferriman’s stay since his sentencing has been remarkably uneventful.

Ashley graduated from Rosedale Heights and is now enrolled in the arts program at a good university. She’s still an avid photographer, but no longer acts. She’s toned down her look quite a lot, dressing tastefully and discreetly, pretty much the way any parent would want a daughter her age to look. According to people who know her, she can get some of the old gear out for shows and visits to nightclubs, but even then, she’s still rarely outlandish looking.

I spoke with a young man—a drama student at another university—who had befriended her after meeting her at a concert. They communicated for a while, but he stopped, he says, because he found her “too aggressive.” He described her as “really good looking,” but said he wasn’t sure she was “worth the trouble” to continue getting to know.

One former friend of hers from Rosedale Heights told me Ashley had a website where she sold nude photos of herself. I was not surprised when the story turned out to be false.

Heather continues to be Ashley’s friend, while Lindsay does not. A person very close to the case described Heather as “having her head screwed on right.” He maintains that she’s “a good kid with a good family; she’ll be alright no matter what she chooses to do.” When I asked the same person about Lindsay, he laughed and asked “you mean the little shit? That’s what we all called her at the trial.” He smiled and told me: “She’s in for a surprise when she grows up; she’ll find out that most people are not as easy to push around as parents and teachers—good luck to her.”

Interestingly, none of the principals seems to have learned much about the Internet since the murder. Pierre and all of the girls have Facebook pages with a surprising amount of personal information on them. Even Tim got into the act. Early in 2007 he advertised on a musicians’ site his desire to play bass in a heavy metal band. The ad read like most others in the genre, although he did mention some “special circumstances” that would keep him from joining a band right away. He would, the ad said, explain them to interested parties if they e-mailed him. Still, I could see a lot of heavy metal bands wanting to have a bass player who had done time for manslaughter. If he can play—he couldn’t before he went to Syl Apps, but the bass lines in heavy metal are usually pretty remedial—he could become a marketable commodity.

Of course, Ashley’s accounts at VampireFreaks and Xanga are long gone, but she still does have a surprising amount of her personal inventory—particularly art photographs—on the Web. Some of them are from around the time of the murder, some from during the trial and some after. There doesn’t seem to me to be any progression to the works. The ones from 2007 could just as easily be in the 2003 album. If Johnathon’s murder had any effect on her, it didn’t show up in her work.

Fearing Ashley’s works were perhaps too subtle for me, that maybe I’d missed the point, I showed her photos to an accomplished artist I know well, and she said that they were “technically sound” but the subject matter—homeless people, urban architecture—and its treatment were “typically undergrad” and far from deep. Ashley also had a number of self-portraits on one site (she’s since removed them, but they are easy to find for anyone who knows how to handle a search engine cache), which show a distinctly narcissistic bent. One in particular, a loving study of her own legs and buttocks, seems less an artistic effort than an ode to self-edification.